From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- Reflections On A Birth Of Rock And Roll Night-Take One

 

Rock and roll was (is) big, sweaty cities, hot time summertime and the living is easy cities, New York-sized outlandish skyscraper to the stars cities, Chicago big windy, sloppy hog butcher to the world cities, seven hills rolling to the golden pacific wash and Japan seas great American west night San Francisco cities, sprawling sun-sweated, be-fogged, brown hills and all swish and swirl coreless arroyo Los Angeles cities, be-bop cities okay, kids sitting around Washington Square, Central Park, Union Square, Lincoln Park, Grant Park,  Russian Hill, Telegraph Hill, Golden Gate Park, Venice Beach, Santa Monica pier, Malibu surf run, name your square, park, hill, beach, run, what the hell is a run, or be square,  be-bopping away, waiting, waiting impatiently, waiting out of their shoes, blue suede Carl Perkins shoe or not, maybe fearful Pat Boone, Pat Boone!!! white bucks, whatever,   impatiently for the big freeze red scare (hell, no far away, big freeze red scare right down in big city New York Foley Square and dead commie Rosenburgs, stalinite jews for god’s sakes, why did they do it, Hollywood Ten cinematic villains writing up some Malibu night mare scenes to scare young children, future golden boy perfect wave surfers, to death Chi town Wobblies turned red never getting over Haymarket 1886 and doing hard time in Joliet, Longshoremen Harry Bridges and golden gate breach) cold war night to turn warm and  provide some fresh air to breath, to breath a not parentcoppriestteacherauthority, not air raid shelter, head down, ass up breathe.

Clapping hands by twos and threes as some bopping horn, or better sexed-up sax, parent wary too sexed-up sax, make of that what you will, always sax wails, whales, wales, away with that big beat, beat down, beat around, beat six- ways-to- Sunday (the day exactly), some guitar riff out of Les Paul or some jazz Charlie Christian saint, maybe some Ike Turner Rocket 88 turbo-blast, trying to make sense of that off-beat Bill Haley and the Comets Rock Around The Clock beat that framed, hell, beat to hell that  silly Asphalt Jungle  j. d. (juvenile delinquent for the clueless squares, jack-rollers, corner boys, whip chain-slashers for those in the know also looking for that freeze to thaw in their own coping way) movie seen down at the Majestic on that cool off Saturday popcorn afternoon. Stag (stag, meaning no girl, not solo, but with full corner boy regiment in tow), later, intermission later, seeing she, Public School 63 sweet Madonna and then to Eddie Cochran Sitting in the Balcony, Zooey (maybe jewish and no madonna, no frozen irish Catherine Madonna, Muffy wasp Madonna , Rita italian Madonna , Greta german Madonna thing, thank god but not caring not caring a fig just following that Zooey  ivory bath soap, could it be perfume smell that has hooked guys since, well Adam), and off to private upstairs balcony screenings.

Later, maybe four o’clock later, strolling (got to learn how to get the hang of that damn thing, the stroll, if you want to hang on to Zooey, boy) off to Schrafft’s corner lunchroom and quarters for jukebox, endless cadges; play this and that six, twelve, infinite times. And our father, Elvis, Elvis, all shakes, shiver, making girls, making Zooey (he heard) sweat (and Zooey,  cool bath soap smell Zooey does not sweat even in sweaty New York/Chi Town/Frisco/LA LA land cities) and do things up in cloistered rooms (so he heard) when they (boys they in case you didn’t figure that out) ran Mr. Sam’s ragged looking for just the right look, and old Mr. Mack too benefited selling combs, gels, and six other things, except correctives for two left feet.        

Rock was (is) small Podunk towns, every boy knows every girl (and maybe desires each too although that would cause a scandal in monogamous protestant-driven podunk), small , sweaty towns and villages, hell, one street main street crossroads down in Texas, pass throughs for Greyhound buses and oil tankers, summertime and the living is easy crossroads, Podunk outlandishly named towns, Boise, Helena, Ponticello, Big Sur (before the invasion), Olde Saco filled with French-Canadian boys calling out the songs in patois French (no Arcadia here), be-bop (okay, half  be-bop towns, dusty old towns soon, how soon, to be de-populated by every boy and girl and off to the big sweaty rock and roll cities). Kids sitting around the village green, the fourth of july bandstand, the monument to the civil war, maybe on ocean edge towns down some salty beach, be-bopping away, waiting, waiting just like big sweaty city waiting ,for the big freeze red scare (hell, no far away, they ran those pink, red  NAACP guys, white guys, students making strange noises, right out of town, right onto those Trailways buses, one way, pronto) cold war night to turn warm and  provide some fresh air to breath to breath a not parentcoppriestteacherauthority, not air raid shelter (or under old time mahogany inkwell desks for real Podunk towns), head down, ass up breathe.

Clapping hands by twos and threes as some bopping horn, or better sexed-up sax, parent wary too sexed-up sax, make of that what you will, always sax wails, whales, wales, away with that big beat, beat down, beat around, beat six- ways-to- Sunday (the day exactly), some guitar riff out of Les Paul or some jazz Charlie Christian saint, maybe some Ike Turner Rocket 88  piano turbo-blast, trying to make sense of that off-beat Bill Haley and the Comets Rock Around The Clock beat that framed, hell, beat to hell that  silly Asphalt Jungle  j. d. (big city juvenile delinquent for the clueless squares, jack-rollers, corner boys, whip chain-slashers for those in the know also looking for that freeze to thaw in their own coping way) movie seen down at the Bijou (imitation big city Majestic, really doubling for Sunday morning pancake socials too), on that cool off Saturday popcorn (popcorn addicted same as in sweaty cities) afternoon. Stag (ditto, cities, maybe corner boys, some innocent when you dream Mama’s Pizza parlor corner, maybe no), but later, intermission later, seeing she, Olde Saco South Junior High School, for example, (no blank big city Public School X number here) sweet Madonna (same as big city on that) and then to Eddie Cochran Sitting in the Balcony, Betty (or Jane, Mary, nothing as exotic as big city, maybe jew, big city Zooey) and off to private upstairs balcony screenings.

Later, maybe four o’clock later, strolling (got to learn how to get the hang of that damn thing, the stroll, if you want to hang on to Betty/Jane/ Mary, boy) off to Doc’s corner drugstore and quarters for jukebox, endless cadges, play this and that six, twelve, infinite times. And our father, Elvis, Elvis, all shakes, shiver, making girls, making Betty (he heard) sweat (and Betty, Zooey-like, cool Betty does not sweat even in sweaty summer midday corn-picking fields) and do things, universal do things, private girl things, up in cloistered rooms (so he heard) when they (boys they in case you didn’t figure that out) ran the Sears catalogue (and Ma) ragged looking for just the right look, and old Doc and his fuddy-duddy drugstore with odd medicines for sick people what-a- drag- to- be-old-and- it- ain’t- never- going- to- come- to- that- for- me  benefited selling combs, gels, and six other things, except correctives for two left feet.        

Rock was (is)…